auctions and gymnastics.
as the brothers drew near to the busy region of the city which lies to the north of london bridge; frank turned aside into one of the narrow streets that diverge from the main thoroughfare.
“where are ye goin’?” inquired willie.
“there was a fire here last night,” said frank; “i want to have a look at the damage.”
“a fire!” exclaimed willie. “why, blazes, it strikes me there’s bin more fires than usual last night in london.”
“only two, lad.”
“only two! how many would you have?” asked willie with a laugh.
“don’t you know,” said frank, “that we have about four fires every night? sometimes more, sometimes fewer. of course, we don’t all of us turn out to them; but some of the brigade turn out to that number, on an average, every night of the year.”
“are ye jokin’, frank?”
“indeed i am not. i wish with all my heart i could say that i was joking. it’s a fact, boy. you know i have not been long in the force, yet i’ve gone to as many as six fires in one night, and we often go to two or three. the one we are going to see the remains of just now was too far from us for our engine to turn out; but we got the call to send a man on, and i was sent. when i arrived and reported myself to mr braidwood, the two top floors were burnt out, and the fire was nearly got under. there were three engines, and the men were up on the window-sills of the second-floor with the branches, playin’ on the last of the flames, while the men of the salvage-corps were getting the furniture out of the first floor. conductor brown was there with his escape, and had saved a whole family from the top floor, just before i arrived. he had been changed from his old station at the west end that very day. he’s a wonderful fellow, that conductor! many a life he has saved; but, indeed, the same may be said of most of the men in the force, especially the old hands. here we are, lad. this is the house.”
frank stopped, as he spoke, in front of a ruined tenement, or rather, in front of the gap which was now strewn with the charred and blackened débris of what had once been a house. the street in which it stood was a narrow, mean one, inhabited by a poor, and, to judge from appearance, a dissipated class. the remains of the house were guarded by policemen, while a gang of men were engaged in digging among the ruins, which still smoked a little here and there.
“what are they diggin’ for?” asked willie.
“i fear they are looking for dead bodies. the house was let out to lodgers, and swarmed with people. at first it was thought that all were saved; but just before i was ordered home after the fire was got under, some one said that an old man and his grandchild were missing. i suppose they’re looking for them now.”
on inquiring of a policeman, however, frank learned that the remains of the old man and his grandchild had already been found, and that they were searching for the bodies of others who were missing. a little beyond the spot where the fire had occurred, a crowd was gathered round a man who stood on a chair haranguing them, with apparently considerable effect, for ever and anon his observations were received with cries of “hear, hear,” and laughter. going along the middle of the narrow street, in order to avoid the smell of the old-clothes’-shops and pawnbrokers, as well as the risk of contact with their wares, frank and willie elbowed their way through the crowd to within a few yards of the speaker.
“what is he?” inquired frank of a rather dissipated elderly woman.
“he’s a clown or a hacrobat, or somethink of that sort, in one of the theatres or music-’alls. he’s bin burnt out o’ his ’ome last night, an’s a-sellin’ off all he’s been able to save, by hauction.”
“come; now, ladies an’ gents,” cried the clown, taking up a rather seedy-looking great-coat, which he held aloft with one hand, and pointed to it with the other, “who’s agoin’ to bid for this ’ere garment—a hextra superfine, double-drilled, kershimere great-coat, fresh from the looms o’ tuskany—at least it was fresh from ’em ten years ago (that was when my grandfather was made lord mayor of london), an’ its bin renewing its youth (the coat, not the lord mayor) ever since. it’s more glossy, i do assure you, ladies and gents, than w’en it fust comed from the looms, by reason of the pile havin’ worn off; and you’ll obsarve that the glossiness is most beautiful and brightest about the elbows an’ the seams o’ the back. who bids for this ’ere venerable garment? six bob? come now, don’t all bid at once. who said six bob?”
no reply being made to this, except a laugh, the clown (who, by the way, wore a similarly glossy great-coat, with a hat to match) protested that his ears must have deceived him, or his imagination had been whispering hopeful things—which was not unlikely, for his imagination was a very powerful one—when he noticed frank’s tall figure among the crowd.
“come now, fireman, this is the wery harticle you wants. you comed out to buy it, i know, an’ ’ere it is, by a strange coincidence, ready-made to hand. what d’ye bid? six bob? or say five. i know you’ve got a wife an’ a large family o’ young firemen to keep, so i’ll let it go cheap. p’raps it’s too small for you; but that’s easy put right. you’ve only got to slit it up behind to the neck, which is a’ infallible cure for a tight fit, an’ you can let down the cuffs, which is double, an’ if it’s short you can cut off the collar, an’ sew it on to the skirts. it’s water-proof, too, and fire-proof, patent asbestos. w’en it’s dirty you’ve got nothin’ to do but walk into the fire, an’ it’ll come out noo. w’en it’s thoroughly wet on the houtside, turn it hinside hout, an’ there you are, to all appearance as dry as bone. what! you won’t have it at no price? well, now, i’ll tempt you. i’ll make it two bob.”
“say one,” cried a baker, who had been listening to this, with a broad grin on his floury countenance.
“ladies and gents,” cried the clown, drawing himself up with dignity; “there’s an individual in this crowd—i beg parden, this assemblage—as asks me to say ‘one.’ i do say ‘one,’ an’ i say it with melancholy feelin’s as to the liberality of my species. one bob! a feller-man as has bin burnt hout of ’is ’ome an’ needs ready money to keep ’im from starvation, offers his best great-coat—a hextra superfine, double-drilled (or milled, i forget w’ich) kershimere, from the looms o’ tuskany—for one bob!”
“one-an’-six,” muttered an old-clothes-man, with a black cotton sack on his shoulder.
“one-an’-six,” echoed the clown with animation; “one-an’-six bid; one-an’-six. who said one-an’-seven? was it the gent with the red nose?—no, one-an’-six; goin’ at the ridiculously low figure of one-an’-six—gone! as the old ’ooman said w’en her cat died o’ apple-plexy. here you are; hand over the money. i can’t knock it down to you, ’cause i haven’t a hauctioneer’s ’ammer. besides, it’s agin’ my principles. i’ve never knocked nothin’ down, not even a skittle, since i joined the peace society.
“now, ladies an’ gents, the next thing i’ve got to hoffer is a harm-chair. hand up the harmchair, jim.”
a very antique piece of furniture was handed up by a little boy, whom willie recognised as the little boy who had once conversed with him in front of the chocolate-shop in holborn hill.
“thank you, my son,” said the clown, taking the chair with one hand and patting the boy’s head with the other; “this, ladies and gents,” he added in a parenthetical tone, “is my son; he’s bin burnt hout of ’ouse an’ ’ome, too! now, then, who bids for the old harm-chair? the wery identical harm-chair that the song was written about. in the embrace o’ this ’ere chair has sat for generations past the family o’ the cattleys—that’s my name, ladies an gents, at your service. here sat my great-great-grandfather, who was used to say that his great-grandfather sat in it too. here sat his son, and his son’s son—the lord mayor as was—and his son, my father, ladies and gents, who died in it besides, and whose son now hoffers it to the ’ighest bidder. you’ll observe its antiquity, ladies an’ gents. that’s its beauty. it’s what i may call, in the language of the haristocracy, a harticle of virtoo, w’ich means that it’s a harticle as is surrounded by virtuous memories in connection with the defunct. now then, say five bob for the hold harm-chair!”
while the clown was endeavouring to get the chair disposed of, willie pushed his way to the side of jim cattley.
“i say, youngster, would you like a cup o’ chocolate?” began willie by way of recalling to the boy their former meeting.
jim, whose face wore a sad and dispirited look, turned angrily and said, “come, i don’t want none o’ your sauce!”
“it ain’t sauce i’m talkin’ of, it’s chocolate,” retorted willie. “but come, jim, i don’t want to bother ye. i’m sorry to see you an yer dad in sitch a fix. have you lost much?”
“it’s not what we’ve lost that troubles us,” said jim, softened by willie’s sympathetic tone more than by his words; “but sister ziza is took bad, an’ she’s a fairy at drury lane, an’ takin’ her down the fire-escape has well-nigh killed her, an’ we’ve got sitch a cold damp cellar of a place to put her in, that i don’t think she’ll get better at all; anyhow, she’ll lose her engagement, for she can’t make two speeches an’ go up in a silver cloud among blue fire with the ’flooenzer, an ’er ’air all but singed off ’er ’ead.”
jim almost whimpered at this point, and willie, quitting his side abruptly, went back to frank (who was still standing an amused auditor of the clown), and demanded a shilling.
“what for, lad?”
“never you mind, blazes; but give me the bob, an’ i’ll pay you back before the week’s out.”
frank gave him a shilling, with which he at once returned to jim, and thrusting it into his hand, said:
“there, jim, your dad’s hard up just now. go you an’ get physic with that for the fairy. them ’floo-enzers is ticklish things to play with. where d’ye stop?”
“well, you are a queer ’un; thank’ee all the same,” said jim, pocketing the shilling. “we’ve got a sort o’ cellar just two doors east o’ the burnt ’ouse. why?”
“’cause i’ll come an’ see you, jim. i’d like to see a live fairy in plain clo’se, with her wings off—”
the rest of the sentence was cut short by the clown, who, having disposed of the old arm-chair to a chimney-sweep, ordered jim to “’and up another harticle.” at the same moment frank touched willie on the shoulder, and said, “let’s go, lad; i’ll be late, i fear, for the gymnastics.”
at the period of which we write, the then chief of the london fire brigade, mr braidwood, had introduced a system of gymnastic training among the firemen, which he had found from experience to be a most useful exercise to fit the men for the arduous work they had to perform. before going to london to take command of and reorganise the brigade which then went by the name of the london fire-engine establishment, and was in a very unsatisfactory condition, mr braidwood had, for a long period, been chief of the edinburgh fire brigade, which he had brought to a state of great efficiency. taking the requirements and conditions of the service in edinburgh into consideration, he had come to the conclusion that the best men for the work in that city were masons, house-carpenters, slaters, and suchlike; but these men, when at their ordinary employments, being accustomed to bring only certain muscles into full play, were found to have a degree of stiffness in their general movements which prevented them from performing their duty as firemen with that ease and celerity which are so desirable. to obviate this evil he instituted the gymnastic exercises, which, by bringing all the muscles of the body into action, and by increasing the development of the frame generally, rendered the men lithe and supple, and in every way more fitted for the performance of duties in which their lives frequently depended on their promptitude and vigour.
in addition to these advantages, it was found that those exercises gave the men confidence when placed in certain situations of danger. “for example,” writes mr braidwood, “a fireman untrained in gymnastics, on the third or fourth floor of a burning house, with the branch in his hands, who is uncertain as to his means of escape, in the event of his return by the stair being cut off, will be too much concerned about his own safety to render much service, and will certainly not be half so efficient as the experienced gymnast, who, with a hatchet and eighty feet of rope at his waist, and a window near him, feels himself in comparative security, knowing that he has the means and the power of lowering himself easily and safely into the street”—a knowledge which not only gives him confidence, but enables him to give his undistracted attention to the exigencies of the fire.
it was to attend this gymnastic class that frank now turned aside, and proposed to bid willie goodbye; but willie begged to be taken into the room. frank complied, and the boy soon found himself in an apartment fitted up with all the appliances of a gymnasium, where a number of powerful young men were leaping, vaulting, climbing, and in other ways improving their physical powers. frank joined them, and for a long time willie stood in rapt and envious contemplation of the busy scene.
at first he could not avoid feeling that there seemed a good deal more of play than business in their doings; but his admiration of the scene deepened when he remembered the bold acts of the firemen at beverly square, and recognised some of the faces of the men who had been on duty there, and reflected that these very men, who seemed thus to be playing themselves, would on that very night, in all probability, be called upon to exert these powers sternly and seriously, yet coolly, in the midst of scenes of terror and confusion, and in the face of imminent personal danger.
brooding over these things, willie, having at length torn himself away, hastened on his pilgrimage to london bridge.
